Like That
by Joelle8
Summary: It wasn't supposed to happen like that.


Like That

When did everything go so wrong?

This wasn't how life was supposed to go for you. As a small child, you dreamed of living up to expectations; as a teenager, you dreamed of power; and as an adult, you dreamed of love.

It wasn't supposed to happen like that.

(*)

It was all Amy Cahill's fault, you suppose.

Yes, _that _Amy Cahill. Your childhood sweetheart. The shy, pretty, intelligent one who just _must _be your "soul mate" because opposites attract, and you two are as different as people can get.

You never believed in clichés.

Nevertheless, you started to date her. Maybe because she was different; maybe because she intrigued you; maybe because you felt like it was your duty. Whatever the reason, years after the Clue Hunt ended, years after becoming her friend, you asked her out; four years later, you proposed, and she accepted.

Of course, being sensitive, sentimental, kind Amy, she decided that the Holts- who she and Dan got on surprisingly well with- should be told about your engagement in person.

And that was what started it all.

(*)

When you saw the Holts, you were surprised by how little they'd changed.

Eisenhower was still a massive, hulking man who towered over you and- although you refused to admit it- frightened the bloody hell out of you. Mary-Todd, aside from having biceps fit to crush a truck, was a relatively normal housewife, you supposed; she was baking "Body Builder Brownies" for dessert when you and Amy arrived.

You still didn't trust Mary-Todd, so you stayed away from the brownies.

Hamilton was courteous enough, although he was certainly not friendly; you did, however, manage to have a decent conversation with him. Apparently, he was going to the University of Michigan on a football scholarship, studying computers. He still looked that same as well- buff and tough.

Madison and Reagan were as identical as they were when they were eleven, both being as strong as their older brother and nearly as tall. They still had thin blond hair- though not in pigtails anymore- and dull blue eyes. Eisenhower mentioned during dinner that Madison taught the men's weight lifting class at the local gym; he added that Reagan was a teacher as well, though no one specified what.

Of course, being the Holts, they ate more than the average person, and- as you discovered when Mary-Todd decided to bring out a bottle of wine- they drank more than the average person, too. The worst thing that happened was Reagan slurring to you at one point, "Yooooou're not gooood 'nough for A-" she hiccupped "-Amy, Kabra, you li'l snake…"

You didn't say it out loud- Amy was right there, after all- but you thought she looked an awful lot like a male warthog, ugly and stupid and ungraceful and rude, and that, in your opinion, was _much _worse than being a snake. (Which you aren't. At all.)

(*)

You were more than surprised when you saw Reagan Holt again less than a month later. At the mall. In a _jewelry shop_, no less.

Normally, you would have just kept walking- you had a new watch to buy, after all- because you were raised to be passive to most things in life. But this was just such a shock that your low level of curiosity rose up and flooded you, taking over your limbs and making you walk over to your distant cousin before you had time to think about it.

"What _are _you doing?" you asked, your voice filled with contempt. That part wasn't from the curiosity.

"Nothing," Reagan replied quickly, her cheeks flushing red as she turned to face you. It didn't last, though- she quickly narrowed her eyes and took on her far too common persona of an angry dog instead. "What are _you _doing here, anyways? Spying on me?"

"Please," you said smoothly, "I've got better things to do with my time than watch _you _play mental Princess."

"_I was not playing Princess,_" she hissed at you, her face purple from anger.

"Why were you looking at jewelry then?" you countered, arching one perfect eyebrow.

"Because I'm a _girl_, Kabra, and girls look at jewelry every so often. How thick are you?"

"I was under the impression that you weren't like other girls in that particular way."

"Your impression of me is from when I was eleven."

You almost smirked then, but you stopped yourself just in time. Instead, you just nodded, "Touché," and walked away.

Even though you felt her eyes follow you out, you knew she couldn't possibly be confused as you were. She had just proved that she was a girl and, more than that, not completely stupid- two things that you never thought would happen. Ever. What other oddities did the world have in store for you?

(*)

The next time you saw Reagan, it was entirely Amy's fault.

If your fiancée hadn't signed you up for dancing lessons (because she wouldn't believe you when you said you remembered every single step that you had learned as child; when would she learn that you were smarter than her? Especially about yourself), then you never would have had a dancing teacher. A dancing teacher who gave you a discount because, Amy said brightly, "She's an old friend."

You _really _should have been wary when Amy refused to tell you who the friend was.

However, luck was not on your side that day, and your sixth sense- your Lucian sense- was turned off for once, so you dismissed the matter. When the time came, you went to the dance lessons- mostly so Amy wouldn't nag you about it- and saw none other than Reagan Holt, clad in a purple leotard.

"What are _you _doing here?" you snarled, screwing up your face in disgust.

"I'm your dance teacher," Reagan answered, rolling her eyes at you. "Let's get started."

"Wait, wait, wait," you cut in, "I'm here to learn to waltz. There is _no way _that _you_, of all people, are good enough at the waltz to teach _me_."

"I'm trained at this, Kabra, so yeah, I _am _good enough at the waltz to teach you," Reagan retorted. "Now get over here. I don't want to be here any longer than we need to be."

You reluctantly walked over to Reagan and stood in front of her. After a moment, you swallowed your rising vomit and put one hand on her waist; she placed one hand on your shoulder and you clasped your other two hands together, making the proper waltz position.

"Ugh," Reagan shuddered. For once, you agreed with her.

Your dance teacher (you still couldn't believe that) leaned over and pressed a button on a CD player. After a few scratchy seconds, the gentle notes of a waltz floated through the room, and Reagan was leading you around, telling you where to put your feet and how to stand correctly.

Every track on the CD must have been the same waltz, you thought, because you and Reagan danced together over and over again. You danced with her so many times that by the time you were done, you were so used to touching her that it didn't repulse you anymore.

Before you left, you thanked Reagan for the lessons (only out of manners) and she merely nodded back, looking at- to your horror- your mouth, with almost a confused expression.

"Might I ask why you're staring at my mouth?" you asked in a curt tone, startling her a bit. Unable to help yourself, you smirked, "I can't blame you if you like what you see, but I'm afraid you're not in my league."

"Gross!" Reagan exclaimed, a look of true horror taking over her features. "It's not that- _never _that, that's disgusting- you were _smiling_. I don't think I've ever seen you smile before."

"I like dancing," you said as you exited, shrugging nonchalantly.

But inside, panic was swelling inside you, because you'd never had a particular fondness for dancing, and there was only one other thing- one other terrible, nightmarish thing- that could've spurred that rare smile.

(*)

Amy decided that, just to be safe, you should have another dancing class. Even though that was the last thing you wanted, your fiancée (why did that word repulse you now?) insisted to the point of being prepared to argue; you knew then that you had no choice.

You arrived just five minutes early and were about to walk in when you heard delighted laughter and Reagan's "Point your toes!" following.

Looking through the doorway, you saw that Reagan was lifting a young girl up and down in the air while shouting directions- "Arms in a circle!" "Arabesque!" "Point your toes!" The girl was doing everything she was told but, at the same time, was laughing her tiny head off, clearly having as much fun as your sister Natalie when she went shopping. Reagan looked absolutely ridiculous and about ten years younger; this did nothing to improve her features, but you couldn't help but stare at the sudden change.

Had you ever seen Reagan Holt actually have honest-to-goodness _fun _before?

"Oooooh!" the girl squealed suddenly, pointing towards- to your horror- you. "Miss Reagan! There's a boy watching us!"

Reagan turned to face you and, surprised, set the little girl down. "Oh- hey, Ian," she greeted you.

"You're cute," the young girl said before you could make excuses for yourself. Her big brown eyes shined with innocence. She turned to Reagan, pulled on the older woman's arm, and asked, "Is he your boyfriend?"

The Holt burst out laughing. "No, no, he's my cousin's fiancé, Ashley; I'm just giving him dancing lessons. He has the class right after this."

"Oh." Ashley's face fell. "What's a 'fi-an-cé'?" she asked, saying the unfamiliar slowly.

"It means that he and my cousin are going to get married."

"Oooooh!" Ashley squealed again, beaming at Ian. "My Mommy said that two people get married when they really, really love each other! She said it's a really happy day and that you're supposed to wish the people getting married congrations! So congrations, Mister Ian!"

You supposed that the girl meant to say "Congratulations," so you responded by nodding cordially, not bothering to rid yourself of your signature cold air; you would do that the day you decided someone was your equal. That day hadn't come yet.

Reagan checked her watch and declared, "Well, your lesson's over now, Ashley-"

The little girl abruptly burst into tears. "But I don't _want _to go!"

"I'm sorry, Ashley," Reagan said in a kind tone, looking a bit pained, kneeling down to the little girl's level, "but Ian's lesson is next-"

"We can cancel for today," you cut her off, surprising all three of you. Reagan looked at you through wide eyes; Ashley, through tears. "Clearly, Ashley wants these lessons more than I do. If you think I need to, we can schedule for more lessons another time."

Reagan eyed yoususpiciously. "What's in this for you?"

"I get out of the lesson, of course," you smirked.

There was a pause; Reagan bit her lip, thinking hard, while Ashley's tears began subsiding. Finally, Reagan sighed, "Fine. If you want another lesson, call me; if not, then you don't have to. Come on, Ashley," she turned to the little girl, "let's play more Rocket Ship."

"Yay!" Ashley exclaimed brightly, grinning. "Thank you, Mister Ian!"

You just nodded, sparing one last glance at Reagan before leaving.

(*)

Amy wasn't home when you got back; grateful for this, you collapsed on your bed and closed your eyes.

You had thought that Reagan Holt was stupid, rather masculine, ungraceful, rude, and ugly. In the course of just two months, she had managed to prove you wrong on all these points. She had held her own in an argument against you while looking at jewelry; she was a dancer- and good at it, too; and at least with young Ashley, she was anything but rude.

All this made her _beautiful _to you.

You groaned. This was _not _good.

(*)

If this was a story- one of those angsty, poetic stories about forbidden love that somehow always has a happy ending because it's just oh-so _romantic_- then you would have left Amy and swept Reagan off her feet and run away with her, because love conquers all, right?

Wrong.

In reality, nothing changed. Reagan wasn't a princess; nor did she ever pretend to be, as she stressed to you in the jewelry store. She didn't need to be swept off her feet; she didn't _want _to be. And Amy didn't deserve to be left so cruelly- she was a wonderful woman, and it wasn't her fault that you no longer loved her.

Besides, you had been trying to be a better person for years; you had been trying to prove that you weren't so horrible, that you weren't like your parents, that you _did _have a conscience, however far deep it was buried.

No, it was better for everyone if you just pretended that nothing had changed.

(*)

When did everything go so wrong?

This wasn't how life was supposed to go for you. You were supposed to achieve all your goals: you were supposed to live up to expectations; you were supposed to gain power; you were supposed to marry someone you loved.

You accomplished all but the latter.

It wasn't supposed to happen like that.

_**(*)**_

**_So, my latest crack!ship: Reagan/Ian. Many, many, MANY thanks to _The Whisper of Wings_ for all her help with this. Please review (especially if you're going to favorite, so I know why you're doing the latter action), and thanks for reading!_**

**_-Joelle8_**


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